


Back in those days, everything was simpler and more confused

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [13]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: Their relationship is complicated, but Vinnie is starting to figure things out.
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713
Kudos: 2





	Back in those days, everything was simpler and more confused

Vinnie looked up at the sun, trying to figure out what time it was, but _morning_ was all he was sure of, and not because the sun was nowhere near the ocean, but because Sonny had dragged him out of bed for their morning walk along the beach. He'd tried looking at his watch, but since he'd forgotten to put it on when he got dressed, that hadn't told him much. But he'd done pretty well, only forgetting his watch, considering the night he'd had; he was lucky he hadn't forgotten his socks and underwear.

After a night with stewardesses, there hadn't been any morning blow-job for Sonny.

They did this nearly every morning, rain or shine, because Sonny was making up for lost time. It wasn't his preferred ocean—it was too warm, he said, and it looked funny; it was, he said, even worse than the Pacific, which was at least just backwards. This one was South, and weirdly disorienting, but it was an ocean, and after extended time in Pinedale, Wyoming, and Demming, New Mexico, Sonny would take any ocean he could get.

Vinnie didn't care one way or the other about oceans, but apparently Sonny didn't know that, or didn't care, or just liked his ocean better with Vinnie along. Vinnie had to agree with it being disorienting, though. He kept trying to use it to figure out what time it was. He'd face the ocean and look up at the sun—which was nowhere near where it should be. "I'm looking south."

Sonny stopped and looked where he was looking. "No kidding." Then he started walking again.

Vinnie liked the beach, though; he liked running on the beach. He'd run half a mile up ahead of Sonny, then walk back, passing Sonny, back to their starting point, then run up again. This was possibly the only time of the day when he ever moved faster than Sonny, except when he was avoiding being punched by him. Or when Sonny was skipping rope, which he was startlingly good at.

He was walking away from Sonny now, and Sonny was looking at him. Vinnie didn't have to turn around to know that, he could feel it. It wasn't the "someone's watching me" feeling, that uncomfortable shadow of paranoia. The way Sonny was looking at him was like a sharp, hot wind, the kind that feels like it's going right through you. When Sonny Steelgrave looked at you that way, you knew you'd been looked at.

Sonny was **looking** at him, up and down, backwards and forwards, inside and out; Sonny's gaze found everything, went everywhere, even if his hands hardly strayed at all, and don't even start with the rest of his body, which just pressed against Vinnie like—like—

Like something. Vinnie didn't know like what. Sometimes Sonny's tongue strayed into Vinnie's mouth, but only when he was accidentally kissing Vinnie, which—how often did that happen? Only in the dark, usually only if Vinnie had been drinking, or hadn't been, and staggered, or was pushed, or tripped, and fell into Sonny by absolute, one hundred percent, swear on my mother's life accident. Or if Vinnie turned over in his sleep and Sonny happened have gotten lost and was in his bed again, facing him, and his mouth just happened to be right there, and if Vinnie pretended to be asleep. Because while Sonny couldn't stop looking at Vinnie, or didn't want to, or whatever this was, Sonny didn't want Vinnie looking at **him** , didn't want him seeing how much he wanted him. 

Too bad Vinnie wasn't blind.

Sonny had been looking at him last night, too, looking at him while they were with the stewardesses he'd brought home, and sometimes Vinnie wondered why Sonny brought them home. It was so ridiculously obvious that it was him Sonny wanted to be with, and he wondered what the stewardesses thought about this whole thing. Because unlike Sonny, Vinnie knew that women did think.

Maybe Sonny didn't care what they thought. Why should he? They'd never see any of those women again. But caring what other people thought about what he wanted to do with Vinnie was part of who Sonny was, so he probably would care if he knew, so he probably didn't know.

Vinnie certainly wasn't going to tell him.

Sonny was looking at him. _Yeah, so what's wrong with that? Like my mother used to say, even a cat can look at a queen . . . there's a joke in there somewhere, but I'm not awake enough to find it._ Sonny wasn't just looking at him, he was—he was looking at him with intent. And he was going to keep looking at Vinnie, looking as though there wasn't anything he couldn't see. Something about that idea made Vinnie shiver, even running in the hot sun.

And Sonny was going to touch him. Any minute now, he was going to come up behind Vinnie right on the public beach they went to nearly every morning, he was going to come up behind him and touch him, and if anybody saw, it would look casual, and friendly, and meaningless.

It would look straight.

Because what he was going to do wasn't stick his hand in Vinnie's pants, but come around and put his hand in Vinnie's T-shirt pocket, and he was going to do that so he could take out Vinnie's pack of cigarettes. And when he'd put one of the cigarettes in his mouth, he was going to put the pack back in Vinnie's pocket. And then he was going to light his cigarette, and then maybe he'd put his hand on Vinnie's arm, or maybe his back, but probably his arm (bare skin), and it would look like nothing was going on, nothing at all.

This would go on all day, Sonny just looking, just touching to get the cigarettes, or to get Vinnie's attention—as though he ever lost Vinnie's attention—and doing nothing else, until finally it got dark, dark enough. They would sit on the sofa, the TV on, Sonny closer than he had to be on the big sofa, sitting practically on top of Vinnie. Then Sonny would rub against him, and the TV would be turned off, and the kissing would start, Sonny's hands on his face, Sonny's tongue in his mouth, and finally, finally, fucking finally!—Sonny's hand in his pants.

Sonny's hand was in his pocket, removing the cigarettes. "What time is it?" Vinnie asked, but he didn't wait for Sonny to answer, he grabbed Sonny's wrist and looked at his watch himself, answered himself. "Eight forty-seven."

Great. That meant Vinnie was only going to have to live with this itch another twelve hours or so.

Sonny put his hand on Vinnie's arm.


End file.
